Letter #1

There's nothing like a little
leftover beach sand in your shoes
to micro-slash your feet
with military precision. That weird
rattling sound you hear is the refrigerator
tapping out a motorized beat as I write
this to you. Things are balmy here
and the presence of the weather has
made itself known only through the sensors
in my skin, otherwise known as nerves.
During my stroll this morning, I saw
a hunk of bread on the sidewalk
being pecked at by a red pigeon.
What's up with that? Oh yeah, I bought
a cute little sailboat at an auction yesterday.
Today I'll take it out for a spin in the bay.
I named it clown. One of the local gentlemen
here reminded me of you, if you were a man
wearing a tweed vest over a black t-shirt
while going on and on about the kingdom of God.
I can't believe we only have a few weeks to go
before the mild sedatives of autumn kick in.
Not that the flow of time is all mustardy and cramped,
it just is, and continues to move in fits and starts
until one morning you wake up and it's midwinter.